“That is my wish,” said Pauline; “isn’t it yours, Adolphus?”

“Yes!” And this answer was given by a man who was neither asleep nor bewildered, but by one who had put himself out of sight, and was thinking only of others.

Adolphus had not been as blind as Pauline must have supposed him when she bade him remember what their daughter was a year ago.  He, too, had seen that the bloom was fading from her face, and by many a device he had striven to divert the gravity, descending upon her, from taking possession of her.  Pauline’s words revived every fear, every anxiety he had felt for their child.  Generous as impetuous, he saw now only one thing to be done, one result to be accomplished.  Elizabeth must sail in the next vessel, and he was not the man to know another quiet moment till that vessel hove in sight.  That was his way; why hesitate a twelvemonth, when a moment sufficed for a decision, and the good and happiness of others were concerned in the deciding?  And it was not merely his way, as has been made sufficiently apparent,—­it was his wife’s way, and his daughter’s.

Yet fain would Pauline have entered now upon a discussion of what remained to be done; she could have gone on from this point at which they suddenly found themselves standing so wistfully; she would have made, in advance, every needful preparation and arrangement for Elizabeth, up to the time of her return.  But Adolphus was in no mood for this.  He must go and see Colonel Farel, he said, by way of excuse, —­and he must see the doctor.  It would have been a dangerous experiment, had Pauline persisted in the endeavor to discover how much he could endure.  Montier felt that he was not fit for family deliberation now, and wisely made his escape from it.

“I know,” said Pauline, when she and her child were left together, “I know why it is the best thing in the world for you to go on this voyage,—­but—­I do not know how you came by the sudden wish to go, —­or if it is sudden, Elizabeth.”

No demand,—­no confidence required,—­not a request, even, to enter into any secret counsel with her child.  But that child saw the relation in which she stood to the loving woman by her side, whose eyes were gazing into her eyes, whose love was seeking to fathom her heart, and she answered humbly, and with confidence,—­

“I am going to your old home, my mother,—­and to see if it is true that Manuel is to die here in this abhorred prison.  It is my secret, —­it is my errand.  I trust you, for you love me; oh, love me, my mother, and trust me!  I dare not live, I cannot endure my freedom, while he is wearing out his life in a prison.  Am I ill?  Has it worn me to see him, this year past, dying by inches?  I am glad of it,—­I am proud of it!  Now I will see if there is any pity or justice among rulers.”